Alongside
by izanyas
Summary: Izaya meets Heiwajima Shizuo when he's thirty-three years old. Shizuo is a good and loving, generous and loved. Shizuo has a daughter. Izaya attempts the unfathomable task of trying to be a better person. Shizaya, series of snippets.
1. With Ease

This is a series I've been posting at AO3 for a while so I decided that I might as well put it here too. Every chapter is actually a single story, and the overarching plot isn't in chronological order, but I've written everything so it stays clear anyway.

This AU (which I've been referring to as the Hot Single Dad Shizuo AU In Which Izaya Is Really Gay And Keeps Dying) includes warnings such as references to child abuse and child neglect. Please take care while reading.

* * *

 **With Ease**

Akane doesn't mind Izaya so much.

He looks and acts like a bad man—his eyes are bright but there's always the hint of shadow underneath them as if insomnia has bruised his face for life. And Akane may be nine years old, but it's only been four years since she's started living with Shizuo, and she still knows the look of men who don't sleep because they _can't_ , because they don't _deserve_ to. The circles under Izaya's eyes look like the ones on her father's when she visits him in jail and on his subordinates' from when she was very little. She doesn't think about them as often anymore; but with Izaya around the memories skirt her mind with renewed fervor, as if to say, _we're here forever_.

She's sitting next to him right now, a carton cup of ice cream in her lap and the sun bright hot on her face. Grass licks at her bare legs where they extend past the spread of the blanket under them. It's been a while since she went out with Shizuo like this, out of the city and to the small, blue-green lake they used to go to all the time when she was younger. Shizuo has been busy with work and busy with Izaya—she _doesn't_ feel angry about this, she tells herself firmly—and though he always makes time for her she's not sure they've been on an actual outing together in the past six months. It's fine. It's okay. Akane has her school friends and Touka at the dojo and her father's bimonthly postcards even when Shizuo isn't texting her from work or cooking for her at home.

She still resents Izaya's presence on this particular trip, just a little. And she thinks Izaya is aware of it, because he's made himself very silent and very nice since they left the car.

It makes her feel a little guilty, and a lot vindicated.

Izaya is lying flat on his back with an arm thrown across his eyes. He nudges her softly with his other elbow and says, "How long do you think until your dad comes back?"

Akane shrugs, even though she knows he can't see her. "I dunno. He said it was for work. Could be a while."

Izaya grunts lowly. He drags his hand down to his face, presses against his eyelids before blinking hazily at the bright sky. He has nice eyes, despite the memories. Akane has always found them pretty.

When he turns his head around to look at her his gaze is still unfocused, soft with the half-sleep he fell into thanks to the weight of the sun and the cool of the wind.

"Trade you," he says then, and Akane feels her lips stretch into an excited smile before she can help it. "Anything you can tell me about his coworkers."

"Do you have anything on Touka-chan's uncle, like I asked?" she demands, and he rolls his eyes at her.

" _Yes_ , your majesty," he drawls, sitting up with a groan as his back cracks softly. She giggles, and for a second there's only the corner of Izaya's lips twitching into amusement and little wet sounds from the lakebank to hold her attention. All her earlier frustration is forgotten.

"Alright," Izaya says. He crosses his legs and presses his hands palm-first on his knees in a parody of seriousness. "Kuzuhara Kinnosuke, fifty-one years old. He's a police officer." He shoots her a glance; Akane schools her expression into one of complete boredom. She'd try for danger but she's not sure she's quite at that level yet. Izaya continues, "He's sort of infamous for his reckless motorcycle chases and has a few accounts of brutality during arrests. Just slaps on the wrist, really, he never actually got punished for any of them."

Izaya looks at her again. Akane meets his eyes unflinchingly. Shizuo is still nowhere in sight, probably back at the car to talk over the phone as loudly as he can, and she has _all day_.

"You drive a hard bargain," Izaya sighs at last. "Okay, here's the juicy bits. He actually has quite the feud against your family—though I don't think this will ever translate to a feud against you personally unless you decide to take up the family mantle one day. You might be a yakuza kid, but you're still a kid. The man has _some_ morals." He makes a face at that.

"Do you think he won't want me being friends with Touka-chan anymore, then?" Akane can't help but ask. Her heart is beating fast now—she remembers Kuzuhara Kinnosuke's scarred and scary face when he came to pick up Touka from the dojo the week before, the way he had looked over her with suspicion in his eyes and closed his big hand on Touka's shoulder as if to steer her away from Akane.

Izaya glances at her face, then back to the shiny, rippling surface of the lake to his left. "Hard to say. I haven't exactly talked to him."

Akane doesn't say anything in answer, doesn't offer her own half of the bargain for a long while. She feels cold even with the dry warmth of sun rays on her shoulders where the shadow of her hat doesn't reach. The once blue lake now looks greenish and unappealing. All thought of baring her feet to trample in the mud with Shizuo once he comes back has vanished, and her stomach is twisting on itself with upset, until she can feel the burn of tears in her eyes and has to blink away in hope of stopping it in its tracks.

She vaguely sees Izaya's legs unfold beside her. With her head bowed down to stare at her ice cream—it has gone liquid now, and some of it is dripping through the damp carton and against her fingers—she can't see his face, but she thinks she can imagine the kind of face he's making.

"Hey," he says after a while.

Akane sniffs, but doesn't answer. She grabs the sticky plastic spoon and scoops up some of the melting cream to swallow against the nod in her throat in the hope that it will numb the ache of disappointment.

This is the worst picnic she's ever had.

"Shizuo doesn't like this guy named Rokujo," she rasps at one point. Her face is completely dry. She counts it as a victory. "He says he's obnoxious."

Izaya makes a little annoyed sound, and when she looks up his mouth is curled on self-awareness. It makes an irrepressible smile tremble on her lips, even though she knows he's not doing it on purpose—he's getting better at being himself around her but he's not quite there enough yet that he can try to make her feel better on his own.

Shizuo comes back a few minutes later. Akane has put her lukewarm cream back into the box with the ice pockets in the faint hope that it will solidify again. It doesn't, but with the sight of her dad stepping around high grass spots to join them she doesn't even want to snack anymore; he looks irritated but his forehead smoothes over when she meets his eyes, and his cheeks crease into a smile as natural as if a simple glance in her direction is enough to pull it out of him effortlessly. She answers in kind, and closes her eyes when he puts a hand on her hat to push it back onto her head.

"Don't lose this," he says gruffly.

"Wasn't gonna," she whines.

"Yeah, you always say this." He sits back down to her other side where the blanket is still ruffled from the weight of his body before he even left. A sigh escapes his lips. He puts his hands behind him to support his back and turns his head to the sun, eyelashes fluttering shut under his fatigue. Akane turns his head around to look at Izaya.

He's staring over her head to where Shizuo is sat, face softer than it ever is when he looks at her. She feels more than hears Shizuo turn to look at him too, a _"Hi"_ on his voice rumbling out of him affectionately, and Izaya's eyes widen ever-so-slightly as he whispers his own greeting, skin flushing from more than just sunlight and a dimple next to his lips that is more tell-tale than any worded devotion he could express.

Really, Akane thinks, she doesn't mind Izaya so much.


	2. Rush

**Rush**

Izaya is many things, but one thing he isn't is lonely, and one thing he never will be is desperate. They call him informant and they call him _ruthless_ , and he is. He's worked toward this appellation until he was shrouded in it, thick as armor on his skin, long before Yodogiri Jinnai uttered it in his low-lit office and the word caught on camera and spread like dust on drapes. He's thirty-three now. He's solid as a rock. When they say his name it only comes after the comment, like _ruthless_ is what his parents called him and _Orihara Izaya_ is only an afterthought.

There's a man waiting in line at the mediocre coffee shop Izaya's been sitting in for hours, and he's the most beautiful person he has ever seen.

Mikage snaps her fingers in his face when he doesn't answer her chatter for too long not to be insulting. Izaya rips his eyes away from veiny forearms and long-fingered hands to look back at the frown she's wearing.

"Earth to Izaya," she says, irritation clear in her voice. "You could at least fucking pretend to listen when I'm talking to you."

"Where's the fun in that?" he answers. His hand is warm around his cup, a second service long cooled by time and lack of attention. If he tightens his grip he can still imagine the painful tingles of heat into his palm.

She scoffs at him. "You never have fun."

"I do," he protests. "The proof is right here, in my spending an afternoon per month with you as if we're friends. That's easily the funniest thing of my week."

There's an old trace of hurt on her face; for a fleeting second she looks like the teenager he remembers, brash and boyish and utterly unattractive despite her best attempts to catch his attention. Then it's gone, caught into shadows at her thinner chin and now lined face. She looks infinitely more terrifying now.

Izaya glances back at man in the line. He doesn't fidget on his feet despite the twenty minutes he's been standing, doesn't play with his hands or take out his phone to check idly through apps and messages. His hair is bleached a very light blond, fitting for a student more than an adult, but Izaya sips his lukewarm tea and thinks to himself that nothing about him screams of immaturity. Quite the opposite.

"I wanted to know how you're doing," Mikage says.

Izaya puts down his cup. "I'm doing fine, Mikage-chan."

"Drop the chan. And you always say that."

He glances at her, but she doesn't look disappointed so much as unsurprised.

"I'm not lying," and then, because she rolls her eyes, he adds, "I'm really not. I don't know why you keep expecting me to break into tears every time you drag me here."

"You haven't kept in touch with anyone besides me," she replies instantly, rehearsed and familiar. "From whatever I can bribe out of Yagiri you never see anyone, period. And even after all this time, you still refuse to call me your friend."

"We're not friends," Izaya says. He toys with the unused spoon by his cup with the tip of a finger.

"Then what _are_ we?" she asks.

He smiles. "Something that never happened, but which you still cling to in the hope it does."

She reddens a little with anger. The line advances, and the man steps forward all the way to the counter at last. There are too many people around for Izaya to hear his voice—the shop is crowded at this hour, with salarymen taking their breaks and mothers arriving en masse to pick up their progeny at the school on the other side of the street. The line extends all the way outside and further still along the sidewalk, so that the view is blocked from all windows by strangers rocking back and forth on aching feet. The food may be bad, but the owners couldn't have picked a better spot. There's no shop of the same kind around to attract better-advised clientele.

"You should let go of this," Izaya says, looking at her once more. She's managed to control the surge of blood that always paints her red with frustration, but her eyes are dark, her shoulders tense. "You think I'm not serious when I say this, but I'd much rather have you out of my life than in."

Pity tenses the corner of her mouth. "I'm not pining for you, asshole. I finished mourning about that way before high school ended and you dropped off the surface of the Earth."

"I was busy." He leans back in his chair and looks at the greenish ceiling. The paint is flaking in places from humidity.

"For eight years?"

The man with bleached hair is paying now, and wrapping a hand around the plastic cup the woman at the counter gave him. He winces a little at the heat, pulls the handle of his bag back up his shoulder in a fluid movement; Izaya makes a noise of appreciation low in his throat, and Mikage finally catches onto what's been stealing his attention away from her.

"Is that—is that _Heiwajima_ you're ogling?"

Izaya stares back at her. "Who?"

She gestures to the front of the line where the stranger is gathering his change one-handed. There's no mistaking who she's pointing to. "Heiwajima. His daughter trains at our dojo."

Disappointment runs through Izaya like ice, instantaneous and a little dizzying. "Oh."

Mikage watches him intently for a moment. Then she smiles. "This is great, actually," she declares.

"What is?" he tries to reply, but she's leaning away from him and to the side, and she calls, "Heiwajima!" sudden and loud so the sound carries to where the man in question is standing.

Any remnant of hope Izaya might have mustered vanishes when his head turns whip-fast in answer to her voice, too pinpoint to belong to the curious patrons blinking around in surprise after Mikage's outburst. Heiwajima grabs his cup again and walks to them carefully, sidestepping stray feet and the odd baby chair on his way to their table. This close Izaya can see the blue veins inside his wrist where his skin is paler than the rest of his arm and the way fabric stretches across the breadth of his shoulders.

"Hey," he says to Mikage. His voice is deep and soft, as if it wouldn't know what to do with a scream if ever it came upon it. Izaya feels his stomach tense on warmth.

"You here to pick up Akane?"

Heiwajima looks above their table to the glimpses of street he can catch between the people queueing outside. "Yeah. I got here early, so I figured I'd get something warm to drink. It's still cold out there."

"Best time of the year," she replies amiably. "This is Orihara Izaya, by the way."

Heiwajima looks at him with a start. "Oh, sorry. I'm Heiwajima Shizuo."

He takes his hand out of the grip he has on his bag to grab Izaya's, and Izaya feels shivers run up his arm to the crook of his neck under the controlled pressure of his fingers. "Pleasure," he says, perhaps too honestly. Heiwajima stares at him a little too hard, shakes his hand a little too long.

 _He has a daughter_ , Izaya reminds himself.

Mikage smiles, taunting, behind Heiwajima's back.

"Stay with us for a while?" she offers. "It's not four yet."

"That'd be great." He grabs unseeingly at the unoccupied chair next to her and sits down with a sigh.

"Bad day at the office?" Mikage asks kindly.

Heiwajima doesn't look like he belongs behind a desk, Izaya thinks. From how tan the skin of his arms and face is, he would've guessed construction.

"Sort of. Had to redo my entire run this morning because the new intern fucked up the order." He catches the confusion on Izaya's face and smiles briefly before explaining, "I'm a postman."

"Fascinating." He's not even trying to hide how true that is, at this point.

"Isn't Akane supposed to come by the dojo today?" Mikage says. "She's there Tuesdays and Fridays, right?"

"Nah, I'm taking her to see her dad today."

Izaya's hand tightens around his cup, cold tea spilling over the edge. "What?" he says eloquently.

Heiwajima makes a face, like the memory of embarrassment is pulling his features along even without actual feeling behind it. "She's adopted," he says.

"Her real name's Awakusu Akane," Mikage adds. She twirls her spoon inside her empty cup, and her eyes never leave Izaya's.

There's no way for Mikage to know exactly how much this information carries to Izaya. If anything she must think he knows of Awakusu Mikiya's fall by fame, because his name had been all over every newspaper for almost three months between his arrest and his trial four years ago. There's no way for her to know the part Izaya played in it.

Still, he feels something foreboding spread through his veins in stead of his blood, and with sudden clarity he can remember the pixellated picture of a child in an online article, clad in a black dress and standing alone in a sea of adults at the courtroom, as if she was on her way to a funeral. For someone this young, the difference might not have been obvious.

Izaya never cared to know what became of Mikiya's only daughter. Clearly, he thinks, eyeing the open collar of Heiwajima's shirt and the soft-looking skin of his throat, he should have.

"So what do you work in?" Heiwajima asks him, probably taking his silence for malaise.

"Career advice," Izaya replies. Mikage chokes slightly on her breath.

Heiwajima looks confused, but he doesn't ask any more questions about Izaya's job after that. The next few minutes are spent without Izaya's incentive, Heiwajima and Mikage chatting softly about Akane's friends and Mikage's family, a background noise soothing enough for Izaya to focus on filling himself with the sight of a very attractive man he will never approach again. When the worn clock on the wall beside them hits five to four Heiwajima stands up to leave.

"It was nice seeing you," he tells Mikage. Then, to Izaya: "Nice meeting you, Orihara."

"Nice meeting you too," Izaya smiles, with too much honesty not to be blatant.

Heiwajima's mouth fits itself into a grin, rips the skin around his eyes into tiny lines of happiness and warmth like his entire face was made for the single purpose of translating joy unto others, and Izaya flushes all at once, body and mind and heart, tongue dry in his mouth and fingers shaking lightly in his lap.

This is, he thinks, what being desperate feels like.


	3. In-Out

**In-Out**

"You seem a little young," the woman at the state mandated shelter says.

She looks unfriendly, Shizuo thinks. Her face is soft but the frame of her glasses is sharp, a thin silver thing that doesn't brighten the lifelessness of her eyes any. _Kujiragi_ , the tag at her collar reads.

"I'm thirty," he answers.

She hums softly. "Well. Hopefully you'll be more lucky with Akane than her previous foster family was."

"Is that her name?" Shizuo asks. "Akane."

"You didn't know?"

He didn't. He was called the night previous in a rush, after a long day at work spent fixing the mess their intern had made of the stamp machine. He was still half on his way to growling at Rokujou when his phone had rung and he realized who was calling. The rest of his evening he had spent cleaning the guest bedroom of his apartment.

"No," he answers truthfully. "They never sent over her file. I just knew she was the Awakusu girl."

"And a troubled girl at that," Kujiragi replies flatly. "We tried to keep her history on the low from foster parents, but, well. There's only so many girls in state custody named Awakusu Akane who mysteriously refuse to talk about where they come from." She fiddles with the pen above her ear lightly. "They weren't very reassured when they took her in, and then she refused to open up to them. You know how this goes."

He does. His experience with this part of his life is narrow still; he's only fostered one child before, a boy named Haruto who smiled brightly and broke a lot of things. Haruto was only with him for a month and a half. It was enough for Shizuo to learn to despise the system he was a part of.

He feels anxious, now, thinking about fostering someone else. He doesn't know why, exactly. Kujiragi hands him Akane's file, and the picture at the front is that of a serious-looking little girl. The picture is recent, because there are bags under her eyes and not the trace of a smile at her mouth. Her hair must've been a bob the last time she cut it, but it's been months since her father's trial now, and apparently no one has taken the time to fix it for her.

She can't be more than five years old.

"Am I supposed to just take her home like this?" Shizuo says. Kujiragi shifts on her feet and offers him an empty smile.

"Of course not. Take the time to read the file. It's still early, Akane has to eat and pack her things first."

"Did she come back recently?"

"Her fosters brought her back here three days ago. We've been frantically looking for someone to take her in since, as there's not really any extra room here." She pauses. "If she runs out of fosters too soon she'll have to be taken somewhere else."

Shizuo eyes the man at the entrance of the room pensively. He doesn't look out of place at all—it's seven in the morning and he's dressed in well-pressed clothes, sipping coffee and reading the morning news. He could be just one of the place's employees. There's an air to him that suggests law enforcement, though.

It's probably why they called him here, Shizuo realizes. He knows most families already have children of their own before offering to foster some more. They wouldn't want to have police around their every move.

Shizuo is childless. He's not married, or even dating anyone. He doesn't have enough experience to be extremely demanding. His throat itches for a smoke, so he sits down on one of the plastic chairs in the hallway. "Okay," he tells the woman. "I came prepared anyway, so I'll wait here until she's ready."

"Would you like me to tell her anything about you?" Kujiragi asks politely.

"You don't know me," Shizuo mutters.

She huffs. "I have _your_ file, too."

Shizuo thinks about it for a moment. Haruto and himself had gotten along well in their short time together, besides the amount of broken glass he'd had to clean up. The boy's departure had been of his own decision, and still Shizuo sends letters almost bimonthly to him and his adopted family to know how he's doing. _Awesome_ , his shaky handwriting replies every time, following with an exhaustive list of every single one of his activities of the week. Shizuo's not sure how to go around a girl with the kind of history Akane has.

"Yeah," he replies at last. "Just—the broad lines, my name, what I look like. Tell her she has her room ready too. I took the day off in case she wants to be outside a little, but if she wants to go home immediately I don't mind."

"Very well."

Kujiragi barely makes any noise when she walks. By the time Shizuo looks back up from the thin folder in his hands she's turned around the corner to what he presumes are the bedrooms and other facilities of the shelter. There's a glass door separating the back from the lobby, like in a hospital. It feels a little gloomy.

He takes out his phone. The screen unlocks to his last conversation with Celty the same morning. She's texted him once since he started talking out the details with Kujiragi, and it's a short thing, _Everything okay?_ written casual and sincere.

 _Be here for a while_ , he sends. _They're making Akane pack in a rush to leave_.

Celty replies almost instantly, as always. _Her name is Akane, then?_ She's added a flowery kind of face at the end, and Shizuo breathes out a curt laugh. A few seconds later his phone buzzes again. _Are you dying from anxiety yet?_

 _Not. Talk to you later, I got reading to do._

 _Good luck_.

Shizuo reflects for a while about the possibility of going outside to consult Akane's file. Even with the cold of late winter there would be sunlight, and a cigarette to soothe his nerves, maybe even some coffee to flicker them alight again. In these moments he misses the familiarity of his path across town to deliver mail and the hours spent back out in the post office sorting through arriving letters and packages. He doesn't want to get in the habit of smoking around Akane, though. Just because he can't smell the tobacco on himself anymore doesn't mean she won't be able to.

There's a short summary of her circumstances at the beginning of the file, along with her age and health conditions. As he thought, she's just turned five.

He leans back into the chair and starts reading.

It's maybe two hours before Kujiragi comes back with the girl in tow. He's had time to read all the fine print and commit it to heart, although he wishes this could have been done way before he had to take her home. It wouldn't have hurt to be able to see her a few times before that as well. Akane looks taller in person than the photograph suggests, and her hair is cut at least, if not as cleanly as he remembers it being on the picture of her at her father's trial that had spread all over the city's newspapers. She's carrying a bright pink suitcase half her size behind her.

He stands up awkwardly, and when she lifts her head to look at him there's nothing but fatigue on her. "Hey," he tries. He smiles as calmly as he can despite the tension inside him.

Her eyes are very wide. She doesn't look scared, at least, just prudent.

"This is Heiwajima Shizuo-san," Kujiragi says kindly, nodding in his direction.

"It's nice to meet you," Akane replies in a small voice. She's still staring at him cautiously.

Shizuo refrains from fidgeting. "Is this all you're bringing?" He gestures at the suitcase.

"The rest of her belongings are staying here until we find a stable place for her." As he expected, Kujiragi talks over and for Akane as if she's not here, and Shizuo has to fight down some prickling of irritation before it clouds his judgement and manners. "Some of it is still with the police as well, though it shouldn't be long before they give all of it back."

Shizuo looks back at Akane. She hasn't moved, but her eyes are turned to the ground again.

"Would you like to have your stuff sent at my apartment?" he asks her.

"This is unusual," Kujiragi cuts in.

Shizuo doesn't look at her this time. He'd like to be able to see Akane's face for this, but she doesn't seem likely to look up again now that she's assessed him. He doesn't think she would appreciate him kneeling down to her level either.

It's a little late to treat her like a clueless child.

"Akane?" he tries again.

Her shoulders jump a little at the sound of her name. "Um," she mumbles. "Yeah. Please."

"Okay," he smiles. He turns to Kujiragi again. "Would it be possible to have it delivered? I can come back with my car later if not."

She looks back at him with the barest hint of suspicion in her eyes. "It's possible," she replies. "Not before late this afternoon, though."

"That's fine."

He doesn't have to sign a lot of things after that. The agency has his contact info, updated religiously every six months for the two years he's registered as a foster parent. The brunt of it he's told will arrive via regular post within the week—he has to school his face out of amusement at this—so it's really just a matter of putting his name down on five different papers and then taking Akane home.

Kujiragi exchanges a rather cold farewell with the girl when it's time for them to go. Shizuo knows she's expecting to see her again in a few weeks at most, and he tries to tell himself he's as confident as he looks that this won't happen.

At least, if it happens, he'll make sure it's Akane's decision and not his own incompetence at fault.

Akane jumps a little when he closes a hand around the handle of her suitcase. She lets him take it from her without a word and follows in his steps with some distance between them. The streets outside are a clear cold, more biting for the presence of the sun on them than it would be without; but Akane is dressed appropriately at least, bundled up in a scarf and beanie and with an expensive-looking coat he thinks her father must have bought her. It's starting to be a little small on her.

"I don't live far," he says softly over his shoulder. She's maybe five feet behind, but Shizuo doesn't try to close the distance between them. "We just have to walk for five minutes, I promise."

"I can walk," she answers, surprisingly loud.

He chuckles. "Yeah. I can see that."

For a second their eyes meet; then she turns her head to the side and stares at the man walking his dog on the other end of the street.

It really is no more than five minutes from the agency to his apartment. He worries for a moment that the walk up the stairs will be fastidious for Akane, but she climbs the four floors with little more than a light panting to her breath. Shizuo has to stop himself from smiling again while he opens the door.

They stand in silence in the living room, now. Akane is looking around herself as discreetly as she can, with her fringe in her eyes so she can look but can't be looked at. It's with little surprise that Shizuo notices her gaze linger on the old desk in the corner of the room where he keeps his stationery, inks, and pens. He knows it clashes with the rest of the décor.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asks once she looks like she's taking in everything she could. She shakes her head. "Do you want to see your room, then? You can start unpacking if you want. I can help you, too, or leave you alone to it."

She doesn't reply, or move. Her knuckles are white around the hand of the suitcase that she's grabbed back as soon as she came in.

Shizuo has reservations for lunch at the new café two streets down. Akane doesn't look like she'd enjoy moving again so fast, though; her face is painted the wrong shade of apprehensive, a little too close to fright for his comfort. He doesn't think she'll enjoy being out in public as shaken as she looks even with how tight a control she keeps on herself. It's a little scary to observe in someone so young.

Haruto had been different. He had taken to Shizuo's home as if he had always lived here, and Shizuo could only thank the heavens that his first experience welcoming a child had gone so smoothly. Haruto came in like a storm and came out like a soft rain, a little less shaky on his feet.

Akane looks like she's ready to watch the world explode around her.

He hesitates for only a handful of second. When his palm presses to her head it is with the lightest pressure he can manage, just enough that he can feel the soft of her hair beneath his skin. She doesn't jump this time.

"Are you hungry?" he enquires lowly.

She watches him, and he can see all the white in her eyes. "It's not lunch yet," she replies in a small voice.

"That's fine. I'm starving anyway. I can cook us something."

Her lips turn white. He realizes that it's because she's biting them from the inside of her mouth, in a way she thinks he won't notice.

Eventually she does move. She releases the grip she has on her bag and climbs onto one of the chairs in the open kitchen. Her feet don't reach the ground at all like this, and she puts her head into the cross of her arms atop the table so she can watch him from the side. As if folding her body in half could make her disappear.

He turns his back to her and tells himself this doesn't upset him. "You like omurice?" he says, opening the drawer where he keeps his pans. There's a silence; then a soft hum that he's almost certain is assent. "Great. There's some cherry tomatoes in the fridge if you can't wait until I'm done, so don't hesitate, okay?"

When he looks over his shoulder she's turned her attention to the fridge, even if she's not moving toward it yet.

"Go ahead, Akane," he calls lightly, and she turns to him again. "This is your home for as long as you want."

"Really," she says, but it sounds the opposite of hopeful.

Shizuo puts down the pan and turns around to lean against the counter. "Really," he replies.

He might sound more certain than he really is, but he's not lying. He has no intention of letting her go unless she wants to and until the shelter finds someone willing to properly adopt her. Someone _she_ wants adopting her.

It's not enough to loosen her into trust. He can see tension running along her thin shoulders like a metal string and fatigue on her face and in the shaking at her lips. She's not far from crying but she's not letting herself cry, and he knows that this is exhaustion and leftover shock and that she will probably feel better once she's fed and rested; but the sight clenches something inside him the way it did every time Haruto broke a plate and stilled in awful expectation.

"It's okay," he says before he can help it. "It'll be okay, Akane."

"No," she chokes.

"Yes." He takes a step toward her and he kneels, this time: with the help of the chair her face is above his, and he can see the wetness in her eyes. "It's okay to cry."

She shakes her head. It's too late for her to swallow back the first damp trails on her face but she tries, face scrunched up in concentration even as small hiccups escape her. Shizuo doesn't let himself think before running a hand into her hair. She leans into the touch with a sort of despair that makes him feel like he should be the one crying.

"Your stuff will be here today, and we can set up your room," he says, rubbing lightly against her scalp as she shudders in her seat. "You'll feel better when you've had something to eat and some time to sleep. I promise."

He knows she doesn't believe him, not really. It's written in the hunch of her back and in black letters on her file and in every newspaper archive of the country: _Anonymous tip to the police reveals data base of evidence against local yakuza head: Awakusu-kai dismantled_. The words mean a very different thing to her than they do to him and everyone else who spent those weeks following the hunt, arrests, and trials. Awakusu Mikiya is only a name and a concept, like organized crime always is for those who don't live in it. And Shizuo doesn't live in it.

It's different to be a child and to see parents and grandparents be sent to prison for decades.

Still a heave comes out of Akane as if she's suddenly relieved of a weight, and she sags, finally. The last of her sobs are louder and more freeing.

Shizuo stays still for a long time. His knees are starting to hurt against the floor and the angle of his arm is awkward but he doesn't let go of the side of her head and doesn't shift into a better position. He won't, not before she does.

In the end her own restlessness gets the better of her, and her legs start balancing back and forth under the chair. She lifts her head to look at him when he stands back up.

"Feel better?" Shizuo says

"Yeah," she replies hoarsely. And then, rubbing her eyes fiercely with her fists: "Heiwajima-san?"

"Mmh?"

"Can I have the tomatoes now?"

He laughs, a little. Somewhere through her exhaustion Akane must find amusement, or maybe she's just mimicking him; but her lips stretch into the first smile he's seen from her, cracking right into the tear tracks staining her cheeks and making her look entirely like the child she is.

Shizuo does well in his life, but it isn't often that he gets to do _right_. He thinks that this is why he chose to offer the comfort of his own home to this. The picture Akane makes with her in-out wreck of a smile leaves him dizzy, as does the thought of the letter still unopened on his desk that wears the ink stains and smears Haruto has applied with careless fingers.

This is right. This is what he spent twenty-eight years looking for.


	4. Mistaken

**Mistaken**

Shizuo pulls all the stops for their first anniversary. Part of him will always be the incorrigible sap that he was for every teenage romance he attempted, and what he has with Izaya feels so adult and responsible that it feels like a teenager's dream in a way. So he cooks for the evening; what he can't cook he orders in from a more expensive restaurant that he usually would; and Akane decorates the table with more enthusiasm that she strictly means to show. It makes him feel warm to see her like this—she has never taken to someone as well or as carefully as she does Izaya, and part of it might be the hint of willful manipulation that he feels in Izaya and ever manages to stop worrying about, but part of it is also remembering every single time he turned around to see them hunched toward each other and murmuring with a smile.

He thinks the turning point was having her friend Touka over for the first time. Since that day months ago she has never been reluctant to see Izaya, or to see Shizuo with Izaya.

He's never been prideful enough to hide when something makes him this happy.

The phone rings while he's washing some dishes. He half-expects it to be Izaya himself calling in late for dinner and has been preparing himself for this specific disappointment from the beginning. Izaya isn't punctual most of the time, even for things he really wants, and Shizuo _knows_ Izaya has been looking forward to spending the evening here, so the news won't bite this much when it hits. But Akane is the one who picks up the phone from his writing desk and answers it, and though for a second after she speaks her face twists in confused recognition, she doesn't look like she's talking to Izaya.

Shizuo dries his hands. "Who is it?" he calls. She pulls the receiver away from her ear and shakes her head at him, so he walks toward her to take it from her hands. "This is Heiwajima," he says. "Who am I speaking to?"

 _"It doesn't matter,"_ says the voice of a man. It's not Izaya. It's not anyone Shizuo recognizes. He sounds a little winded, like he's been running, or as if someone has just punched him in the stomach out of nowhere.

"I think it does," Shizuo replies dryly. "If you're calling to sell something—"

 _"I'm not."_ He pauses. _"I'm here to give something."_

Shizuo glances at Akane. He put the call on speaker when she handed to him because that's what he's always done except for private calls—because for so long she couldn't trust any call he was receiving not to mean that she would be forced to leave. She's still frowning but she shakes her head at him. _Don't know him_ , she mouths, a little theatrically. It makes him smile. "That's nice," he tells the stranger, "but I'm not interested."

 _"Oh, I think you will be."_

"I'm sorry," and now his voice is as hostile as he can bring himself to be without outright yelling, "but I think you've got the wrong number."

 _"I don't, unless you're not the person who's been seeing Orihara Izaya for the past few months."_ The name tears itself out of the man's throat like a growl. Shizuo turns off speaker with enough strength to make the plastic case of the phone crack audibly, and gestures to Akane to go to her room.

"What's wrong?" she asks immediately.

 _Nothing_ , he mouths. There are prickles of tension in his back now like an old ache; like the elastic band of his relationship with Izaya has stretched too much at last and is ready to snap and burn him.

Shizuo is a careful man. He's been expecting something like this. He had hoped Akane wouldn't be around for it, though.

She looks a little scared and a lot disappointed, but she walks away obediently and closes the door of the hallway behind her.

 _"Is she gone?"_ the man asks. He sounds regretful, almost longing.

"What do you want with Izaya?" Shizuo replies, and this time his voice is loud enough that no one could have mistaken it for anything but anger.

For a moment the stranger doesn't say anything. There's a faint sound in the distance that most people would not have caught but that Shizuo recognizes as a sheet of paper crinkling between fingers. _"I don't want anything_ with _him,"_ the man says at last. _"I'm just here to give him a taste of his own game."_

"If you're just here to involve my family in something—"

 _"Tell me, Heiwajima, has he ever told you what he does for a job?"_

Shizuo closes his mouth. _Yes_ , he thinks, and at the same time, _No_. He knows what Izaya has told him. He also knows that this is a lie, and that the only reason he's let it go for so long is because he's so desperately attracted to Izaya that he wants to fool himself into thinking Izaya hid it from him for his own sake. Maybe for Akane's sake as well.

 _"I see,"_ the man says simply.

"Whatever your problem with Izaya is," Shizuo replies between his teeth, "I'm sure you can take it up with him directly."

 _"After what he did to me and mine, I don't think he deserves this much from me."_

"I'm not _interested_."

 _"But you haven't hung up on me yet, have you?"_

Shizuo finds that he has nothing to say in answer to this. His thumb has been hovering over the _end call_ button for the past few minutes, but he hasn't pushed it in and cut the other's spiel short.

 _"You're a fair man, Heiwajima,"_ the man says, and it sounds sincere. _"I appreciate that greatly, I want you to believe me on this."_

"You haven't even told me your name," Shizuo cuts in. "I'm not believing a thing you say."

 _"My name is Shiki. Six years ago I was in the employment of Awakusu Mikiya, who is today rotting away in prison, and whose daughter is in your care."_

There's ice at the lowest of Shizuo's back. It runs in shivers over his skin and twists to disgust in his stomach.

He breathes in tightly. "So this is why Akane recognized you."

 _"I'm not here for Akane,"_ Shiki says roughly. _"I know she's happy."_

"She is." Of this Shizuo can be sure. Akane smiles with ease and isn't afraid to touch him or to be touched by him. She talks to him when she's sad, she knows she can come to him for a request, for comfort, or for nothing. And she knows Shizuo loves her. The adoption papers are tucked neatly into his writing desk, where Akane takes them out sometimes to copy them using his inks and papers as if she can better commit their words to memory this way.

Shizuo lets out a shaky breath. He feels tense all over his body now, more than he was when the voice was just a voice asking after his boyfriend—because now the voice is a yakuza from Akane's dad's group, and he's speaking as if Izaya has any link to this at all.

 _"I know what you want to ask, so I'll spare you the pain of making the decision to ask it,"_ Shiki says. Shizuo can hear the sort of man he is all the better with the knowledge; and he sounds the kind of cold he's only ever heard from his visits to Mikiya and from Izaya himself. _"Orihara Izaya is an information broker. Until six years ago our association relied heavily on his services, because he is excellent at what he does. One day he decided that selling his information to one of our enemies would be more lucrative than pursing a working relationship with us, and, well. You know what happened next."_

What happened next was anonymous tips to the police, just enough to find evidence and put Awakusu Mikiya in prison for twenty years—and most of his gang there too for lesser sentences.

It's scary how easy it is to fit Izaya's sharp face into the silhouette of the anonymous tipster and to imagine him betraying someone like this. Shizuo knows he can't trust the words of a stranger just because they evoque emotion in him or just because they feel right; even though he's always known that Izaya was hiding more than he ever showed, since the first day they met—since the shadow of sleeplessness under his eyes like bruises and the way he smoothed in and out of honesty every meeting after that.

It shows even in how he kisses. Fast and deep as if he's on the run.

 _"It's regrettable that he chose you of all people,"_ Shiki says. Shizuo doesn't know how long he's been silent. Probably long enough that anyone else would have ended the call. _"It saddens me that I have to disrupt your peace."_

"Then why are you doing it?" Shizuo lets out.

 _"It doesn't sadden me enough to stop me."_

Shizuo hangs up.

He doesn't know when he sits down. He doesn't hear the scraping of the chair against his floor in the kitchen when he pulls it away from the table to make room for himself. It's closer to seven than six but winter is at its end and light strikes the walls of his home enough that he doesn't need to turn on the ceiling lamp; it's a golden evening, a bright cold yellow that fails to bring life to the cream color of his wallpaper the way summer sunlight does. Shizuo feels numb. He watches Akane slither back inside the room with curiosity on her face and thinks about Shiki being someone she knows. The man probably doted on her when she was young. Maybe she would recognize him, if she met him face-to-face

Or maybe she wouldn't, because Izaya sold out her family and upended her entire world in his selfishness.

The knowledge sits heavy in his stomach.

"I think the food's burning," Akane says.

Shizuo lifts his head to look at her again. She's rocking back and forth on her heels; she's hit a growth spurt recently, and he can see her ankles under the hem of her jeans. He'll have to take her shopping for clothes soon.

"Yeah," he says. He doesn't think he'll eat tonight but he makes himself stand up and turns off the stove. He goes as far as taking the pot off of it and putting it on the table for its content to cool.

"Shizuo?" Akane asks in a small voice.

"I'm fine," he replies immediately. Then, with more strength: "I'm good. I think we're going to have to postpone the feast, though."

"Why?"

He puts a hand on her head and rubs it until she's squirming away from him with a smile, wild strands of dark hair falling in front of her face. She really is taller now. With every day that passes she looks more like a teenager than a child. Even with how gooey he feels there's a pang of pride and warmth at the sight.

He's never loved anyone the way he loves her. This is still true. He's never going to love anyone else this much, and he'll do anything to protect her.

"Can you go to your room?" he asks. He knows he must look somber, because her smile fades when she looks up at him. "I'll explain everything later. I need to talk to Izaya about—about something."

"Is it about me?" she says with finality.

The thought of lying to her doesn't even cross his mind. "Yeah. I'll tell you everything once I have it sorted out."

She observes him for a while longer before walking away. He can see her hesitate by the door to the hallway and turn around, and he's not surprised when she asks again, "You'll tell me everything?"

He's not surprised, but he's not happy. "I promise."

It's good enough for her. He's never broken a promise. She closes the door softly, and he hears her do the same with her room's door as well, as if she's trying to tell him for certain that she's not going to eavesdrop.

After that it's only a matter of waiting for Izaya to arrive. Izaya isn't the kind to text his whereabouts regularly—he's never sent so much as an _I'm on my way_ to Shizuo, but he does tell him when he's going to be late. He hasn't, so Shizuo expects him at seven.

Izaya doesn't knock. The door is unlocked when he enters with his head bowed, already hunching over to untie his shoes at the mouth of the room and slid into the pair of spare slippers Shizuo leaves there for him out of habit. "Hi," he calls in a tired voice and with the hint of a smile, and Shizuo finds that he doesn't have it in him to tell him not to bother with the shoes.

"Hey," he calls back. He doesn't stand up from his seat at the table.

"I'm glad I could make it here in time," Izaya muses as he walks around the half-wall separating the kitchen from the living-room proper. He doesn't look as cutting as he did a year ago when they met in that mediocre café. The shadows under his eyes are less pronounced, and his shoulders don't look like they could cut him if he touched them; and Shizuo has had the pleasure of touching them at length, so much so that he can feel every bump of muscle and bone in the hollow of his palms if he focuses.

Izaya doesn't immediately lean in for a kiss, and Shizuo feels some gratitude for that at least. Instead he looks around and says, "Where's your girl?"

"In her room," Shizuo answers. It's hard to push out the words at all. "I need to talk to you about something."

He can't read anything on Izaya's face. Still Shizuo finally feels restlessness shiver alive inside him, so he stands up and takes a step forward instead of shaking his legs like a kid.

"I got a phone call," he starts, but then he has to stop, because he doesn't think he can explain everything. So he asks, "Do you know anyone named Shiki?"

The response is immediate. Izaya's entire body shifts from open to close, and he's good at it, he's always been—it looks like relaxation but it's _not_. "Yes," Izaya says. And, without waiting anymore: "A former executive of Awakusu-kai, and a former client of mine. He got out of prison a month ago." There's a shaky smile on his lips now. "I see he's already broken his parole."

"A month ago," Shizuo repeats, and tries not to let the pit opening inside him show. There's no reason for Izaya to know all this if what Shiki has said over the phone is a lie. "So that's why you've been avoiding me."

"I didn't want to give him reason to come after me," Izaya says casually, one hand coming up to rest atop the counter and fingers tapping lightly against the wood there. "I see I shouldn't have bothered."

"Yeah," Shizuo replies lowly.

For a moment they both stay silent. Shizuo knows what he has to do, and part of him is aware that Izaya is putting up a front in preparation for it and no doubt hiding now more than ever. Hiding every bit of hurt that could have shown on him and made this harder for Shizuo. He doesn't know for sure that Izaya is doing this for him rather than for himself, though.

Shizuo rubs a hand over his face harshly. "You should've told me," he can't help but say.

"Oh, Shizuo," and now there's pity on Izaya's voice, more cutting than anything Shizuo's ever heard before, "what should I have told you, exactly? The part about my job being less than lawful?"

"I could've dealt with that. Izaya—"

"Or the part where I'm directly responsible for everything your daughter has been through?" Izaya continues unhinged. "Do you think I'm stupid enough not to play my cards well in this? You would never have looked at me twice if you'd known."

"If you knew this then why did you date me in the first place?" His voice is loud enough that it probably carries through the thin walls of his home and to where Akane is waiting, but he doesn't think he can keep it nice and quiet anymore. "Why did you _bother_ , Izaya?"

There's a darkness in Izaya's eyes that looks like an answer. But Shizuo can't afford to try to dissect him now—this is about Akane, not him. And Akane will always come first for him. It doesn't matter that he's letting go of something as fulfilling as his relationship to Izaya has been as long as she's safe, and he will never present her with the choice of her happiness against his.

"Did you think you could just hide it forever?" he asks, still.

"No," Izaya says.

Shizuo waits. He dares hope that Izaya will say something along the lines of _I wanted to talk to you about it_. But Izaya is silent, and his eyes look the rust-red of old metal.

"Go away," Shizuo mutters. "Just go away."

Izaya turns around slowly. Every step he takes back toward the door feels like slow-motion, and when he crouches to retrieve his shoes it is with precise movements. Shizuo stares at the pale skin of his nape and the v-shape where his hair parts to fall on either side of it. It's longer now than it was when they first met.

Izaya looks at him again when he's done, and Shizuo shouldn't be here anymore to hear what he has to say, but he's never been able to look away when Izaya is so close and to stop listening when Izaya speaks. "For what it's worth," Izaya says slowly, "thank you."

Shizuo's never heard him say these words.

It would be easy to cross the distance between them and pull Izaya upright, and easier even to kiss him good bye as if this were just any visit or date. Izaya looks like he would let him. There's expectation written on every line of his body and every hollow of his face. He looks handsome even in the soft yellow light of winter that washes out color in everything it touches. Shizuo doesn't know what it says about him that there's nothing he wants more in this instant than to feel Izaya's lips crushed under his, to be able to lick between them and taste some of the heat there to counter the cold in his belly. If he tries he doesn't know that he'll let go, and he's already said his piece anyway. Anything more and he would be no better than Izaya himself.

Shizuo's never been one to take advantage of something he knows he shouldn't. And he doesn't have very many good things to say about himself, but he knows this to be the truth at least.


	5. Cherry

Warnings: drinking.

* * *

 **Cherry**

Izaya takes great care not to look as if he's calculating every minute of every day around the hope of crossing paths with Heiwajima Shizuo. He's seen him four more times since the day Mikage introduced them, and he's never spent as much time in this horrible coffee place in the five years Mikage's been trying to insert herself into his life as he has in the past two months.

All his efforts fall flat when Shizuo himself is here, of course. Izaya can't pinpoint what it is about the man that makes him feel like a teenager; for as long as he can remember he's always been drawn to the dark and dangerous—he's always been drawn to _Shiki_.

He hasn't thought about Shiki so much in a long time either. It happens without the usual spikes of burning fury and shame and regret; it's like contemplating a photo he has little memory of. It doesn't matter, really. Shiki is serving the sentence Izaya bestowed on him alongside half of his organization, and when he inevitably walks out and finds Izaya again, his touch won't be gentle. Izaya doesn't wish that things had gone differently anymore.

It's not Shiki's touch Izaya is thinking about.

Izaya doesn't feel the burn of the coffee as he drinks; the taste is bad but the caffeine is good, and it's all he needs right now. His eyesight has been getting worse all day long. He can barely see the numbers he's looking at on his laptop, and though he knows his glasses are within reach the reaching itself doesn't feel worth doing.

It's almost five in the evening. Long past the time Shizuo would've shown up, if he planned to.

Izaya closes his eyes and does his best to appreciate how stifling the sun is through the windows of the shop. The air conditioning isn't any better than what they serve, food and drink-wise. The only selling point of this place is its proximity with the elementary school Shizuo takes Awakusu Akane to every day. His face feels like it's boiling more than burning, the growing headache a solid weight just under his skin, from temple to temple, all over his forehead. He knows part of it is because he's been surviving off coffee and spite for most of the day.

And then, miraculously: "Orihara."

Izaya shudders. For a moment he doesn't move at all, like he hasn't heard Shizuo, like he can't feel his chest fill with warmth and his face grow hotter than the sun alone warrants. When he blinks his eyes open Shizuo is standing between his table and the window; if it were a few hours later the sun would've been setting right behind him like it was trying to crown him with gold.

"Heiwajima," Izaya says, a little reverently.

Shizuo looks to his sides before taking a seat in front of Izaya, like he's trying to make sure he's not _bothering_ anyone. As if Izaya would even let him approach more than twice if he were undesirable company.

He brings his third coffee to his lips to ground himself. "You're here late," he says.

"What?" Shizuo blinks at him endearingly. "Oh, right. Yeah. Turns out Akane's sleeping over at a friend's place tonight. She just told me about it."

"Feeling abandoned?"

Shizuo laughs at this, warm and self-conscious. "I wish I didn't, but yeah, I do."

It's easy enough to get coffee now. The rush stops at four like clockwork on every school day and the counter is deserted; it barely takes a minute for Shizuo to walk there and ask for his own drink —hot chocolate, Izaya knows—before coming back to sit in front of him. Izaya feels the sort of content he only ever approaches on the rare day work gets interesting anymore.

They drink in silence for a moment. They're not quite close enough yet that conversation comes easy, even if Izaya is stripped of his ability to feel shame whenever this man is around. It's all for Shizuo's sake, really.

Finally, Shizuo looks at him with a lopsided smile and says, "Sharaku isn't here?"

"No," Izaya replies. "I'm all alone." He knows his eyelids droop at the words. Shizuo doesn't seem to be affected.

"You been working here all day?"

"Pretty much."

Shizuo rests his chin onto the back of his free hand pensively. "Can't imagine this is the best spot around town for work," he murmurs.

"It's good enough for me," Izaya says into the rim of his paper cup. He doesn't drink from it. Instead he adds, "and there's always the chance of running into someone I want to see."

Shizuo blinks at him softly.

Then he straightens his back and says, "Wanna get a drink?"

Izaya puts the cup down and tries not to let the trembling in his hand show. "Yes."

* * *

It's too early for drinks. It's not time yet for salarymen to get out of work and the sun is still too high, too conspicuous. Izaya takes Shizuo to one of Awakusu's former bars, one that has been taken over by Yodogiri Jinnai and his terrifying secretary. Izaya doesn't have to present an ID before being admitted in and offered a corner table away from the bulk of the room. The place is literally underground but not figuratively so; there's music and good spirits, and only a few other tables are occupied, and no sunlight; but the other patrons are college girls talking around a margarita and a lonely man at the counter drinking a deep red wine.

"I'll get us something," Izaya says, leaning too close for Shizuo not to feel his breath on the side of his face. He can't tell if Shizuo blushes in the bluish light of the place, but the strength of his gaze is good enough.

He feels giddy as he walks to the counter. Like he's about to topple over from how light he feels, or get a skip to his steps like he did ten years ago.

Izaya didn't just go to this bar to escape the sun and the heat. It has a large collection of beers, some of which are sweet enough to drown out the bitterness. Shizuo doesn't like coffee, and Izaya doesn't think starting the evening with heavy alcohols will win him any points. The German cherry-red beer the bartender offers him might.

"I worked as a bartender once," Shizuo says when he sits back down. The barkeep himself isn't far behind, holding their drinks on a plate. "Thank you," he adds to the man once he's served, and if he gives his glass an apprehensive look, he doesn't seem completely disgusted.

Izaya himself is only partial to beer when the heat demands it, and he prefers his sour. "It won't bite you," he tells Shizuo gently.

"I know that."

He makes a curious face as soon as he takes a sip; Izaya can't help but smile when he does. It's like Shizuo is pulling the light out of him from where he buried it years and years ago.

He's never been this attracted to someone in his life, and it's a man who adopted a girl no one else wanted, a man who comes to pick her up every day to spend time with her at work, a man with a life and with his happiness.

A man capable of looking at Izaya and relaxing in his presence.

Izaya swallows a little painfully. "So. A bartender?"

"Yeah. I was terrible at it, though. Kept breaking bottles and glasses while cleaning them."

"You must be strong," Izaya comments. "Glass is harder to break than it looks, unless the place you worked at was using some really fine silverware."

"It wasn't. I've always been rather strong."

He doesn't look like it. He's thin and tall and his fingers are skinny, only callused from the use of pens and sometimes cut from handling paper all day. "Mmh," Izaya says. He's thinking about what those hands would feel like on him.

Shizuo looks like he should be nursing a hot drink around a fireplace somewhere, with a book in hand and his daughter napping next to him. Maybe a dog as well. He doesn't look like someone Izaya should be taking to an illegally-run bar in town, however clean the bar looks. He's legit. He has a family. He probably wouldn't appreciate Izaya so much if he knew Izaya was responsible for his kid ending up without parents, let alone if he knew the reasons Izaya had done it.

Izaya's been repeating those things to himself since the first time he met him. So far he hasn't been able to stop himself from _wanting_.

"I never really got to try out temp jobs," he says lightly. The light overhead is rotating slowly, making Shizuo's face appear and disappear in different shades of blue. It doesn't make him less attractive. "I've been doing what I do since I graduated high school."

"Straight from high school senior to career advisor?" Shizuo asks, curious.

Izaya smiles. "Sort of."

Shizuo chuckles. "I went through so many jobs after high school. Didn't have what it took for college, so I just tried everything I could get hired at, but I wasn't good at anything."

Izaya doesn't say anything while Shizuo takes another sip of his beer. The movement isn't forced in any way; Shizuo actually closes his eyes to appreciate it, and it makes Izaya's eyesight feel even hazier than it had with a headache earlier. He want to put on his glasses now, just so he doesn't miss anything there is to see on Shizuo's face.

"In the end I was twenty-five and no closer to stability than I was at eighteen when I left home," Shizuo said in a low voice. "But I like writing. Not writing like—" he splutters, and the blue on his skin gets darker as he blushes deeply. Izaya can feel his own blood running warm through his body from the alcohol, and he leans forward. "I don't write stories or anything," Shizuo continues. "I like calligraphy."

"Really?" and Izaya doesn't have to fake the fascination in his voice. He doesn't think he's ever been so genuinely interested in someone.

"I've always liked writing letters. I got my first quill and textbook when I was fifteen, from my parents," Shizuo explains. "So I put that on my resume and tried to work for a post office, and it turns out that I wasn't so bad at that."

He looks faintly embarrassed after that. He drinks a third of his glass in one go and smacks the bottom of it against the wooden tabletop when he puts it down. It's loud enough that the girls two tables over can hear it in the still-empty room, but not loud enough that the old man at the counter moves his head around to look.

Izaya links his fingers together and rests his chin on their back. "You should be proud of yourself," he says.

"Not really. My parents always helped me support myself until I could do it myself."

"But you didn't ask for more than this, did you?" He knows his smile isn't especially comforting, but he tries. "And now you even have your own child."

At this, Shizuo's face relaxes completely, and his eyes turn warm and loving.

 _You can't be jealous of a kid_ , Izaya tells himself. It doesn't help much. "For what it's worth," he says, "I think you've got something not a lot of people, college graduates or not, can claim to."

His foot nudges Shizuo's under the table, and he can't completely pretend that it was accidental.

The bar fills up through the hours. It's located next to one of the office buildings Yodogiri owns, and when the clock hits seven men in suits start pouring in in small groups. They're livelier than the college girls were. The wine man at the counter is gone, leaving only an enormous tip behind that the barkeep has pocketed with an appreciative glint in his eyes.

They speak until the sound around drowns them too much to. Even so Shizuo orders another beer, and so does Izaya; the alcohol is running hot inside him now, and he's glad he picked beer rather than something else. He hasn't eaten all day. His body feels like it's vibrating in rhythm with every crash of glass on wood around them. With every movement Shizuo makes that has their knees or legs touching under the tiny round table.

Izaya feels hot and cold at the same time, and he knows it's not from intoxication.

He doesn't know exactly when Shizuo throws him a loaded glance. It must be around eight thirty now. Izaya declines Shizuo's attempt to pay his share of the evening and drops a few more bills than necessary on the table. He usually doesn't need to pay because of his relationship with Yodogiri, but Shizuo doesn't need to know that. Izaya doesn't want him to. He's not looking very much further ahead than fresh air and a dark sky to hide them from view.

It feels good to take in the night air. Next to him Shizuo rummages through his pocket and takes out a crumpled pack of Winstons, the red of it vibrant under yellow street lamps. He lights one with a carefree flick of his wrist and a pack of matches, and Izaya watches, mesmerized, as he breathes in the smoke.

Shizuo turns his head away to exhale. "Sorry. I should've asked you if—"

"This is perfectly okay," Izaya replies.

He's never smoked himself. He knows all about kissing someone who does, though.

Shizuo's eyes never leave his when he steps closer; Izaya feels his back press against the wall and his entire body shiver; his blood is simmering, his heart feels electric, every breath that leaves him does so with a shake, like he doesn't know how to use his lungs anymore. Shizuo is close enough now that Izaya can better take in the difference in their height and the delightful crow's feet around his eyes. Like his face has been marked by laughter and it can never leave him.

Shizuo exhales again, right to the side of Izaya's face. "Are you…" he tries.

Izaya slides a hand into the space between Shizuo's fingers and his mouth, between the end of the cigarette that's warm from Shizuo's lips and the lips themselves; it travels onward to touch his hair and pull.

Izaya closes his eyes right as their lips touch. He feels Shizuo move immediately, feels his shoulder flex as he throws away the cigarette he's barely touched so he can touch the sides of Izaya's face instead. Izaya breathes out against him because it's better than moaning outright and sounding like he's eighteen—but all Shizuo does is open his mouth like he's been waiting for this for hours.

He tastes sweet and acidic like the beer he drank earlier. Izaya isn't fond of cherries but he thinks, if he were to eat them directly from Shizuo's mouth, that he could sustain himself on them alone.

He licks his lips when Shizuo steps back. He's not very far, just enough that their noses aren't knocking each other out of the way and they can look at each other without getting cross-eyed. Shizuo's lips are red, and his cheeks as well.

"I wasn't sure you were interested—"

"You have to be kidding me," Izaya cuts in.

The hand he still has holding the back of Shizuo's head trails downward until it touches skin; his fingers are shaking.

"Okay," Shizuo says with another smile. "So I'm self-conscious."

"What _for—_ "

Shizuo kisses him before he finishes, and all Izaya can do is close his eyes again and let himself be pushed gently against the alley wall and suck on Shizuo's bottom lip like he can draw the affection out of it more fully like this. His body is getting hotter and hotter by the second, embarrassingly so.

He's the one who cuts it off this time.

"If I could," he says, moving his head back, "I would've climbed you two months ago right in the middle of that shitty café."

Shizuo's eyes have never looked so black. "Sorry," he says, heated. "It's just that I've never had anyone be this into me before. You're pretty hot yourself."

Izaya laughs. He bangs the back of his head against the wall a little, when he leans back completely; Shizuo pulls forward with the movement rather than stepping back, and it feels _so good_ to just have this man holding him loosely, hands traveling down from Izaya's face all the way to his sides. His heart is dancing in his chest and his lips feel like they've been branded. He doesn't remember feeling this many butterflies for any of his teenage crushes.

"Shizuo," Izaya says.

"Yeah?" he feels the answer like a caress on his neck. Shizuo is nuzzling it, and it's almost enough to bring tears to Izaya's eyes. "Izaya."

It's a different sort of attraction altogether. It bubbles out of Izaya like laughter and makes all the ice around his heart thaw, and it's like _feeling_ again completely, in a way he never thought he would again.

He feels fixed.


	6. Make True

**Make True**

The entrance to Fuchuu prison looks like her school, Akane thinks. Glass pans reflecting the sun, reddish walls, parking space. There's a fence around it and a grim little name stone by her side, but it isn't anywhere close to how she imagined it would be.

Her imagination has been rampant.

She doesn't even feel as anxious as she did on the day she went back to school for the first time. If anything she thinks Shizuo looks more anxious than she feels—his hand is holding hers very tightly, like he's afraid he'll lose her if he lets go. His skin is hot despite the icy winter wind around. Not sweaty. His hands are never sweaty. But warm, like a furnace, so much so that her own grip is starting to slide inside his.

His other hand has a thin blue folder in it. She's seen him write on every page in it carefully over the past few weeks; the folder has gone back and forth through the mail that Shizuo keeps tightly organized on his writing desk.

"You ready?" he asks her.

Akane takes a long moment to answer. She's stopped looking at the front gate and is watching their linked hands instead. There's a tiny splotch of ink on her thumb from playing with Shizuo's pens this morning.

She doesn't feel anxious but she can't find her voice; all she does is squeeze Shizuo's hand and step forward, and he follows her gently, his grip softened from tense to comforting.

Akane doesn't listen to what the man in a guard's uniform at the entrance says. She watches Shizuo give him the blue folder. The man skims it with attentive eyes before nodding and pressing a button. There's a buzz, and the loud sound of something unlocking; and soon enough another man is walking toward them from inside the building, opening the metallic gate and gesturing them inside.

Shizuo takes the lead. The man is walking faster than Akane or him were before—she has to almost run to keep up with him, and from the way Shizuo's hand tenses around hers she can tell that he's close to commenting on it. But the prison guard stops soon enough, inside a corridor with beige walls and rows of closed doors. They don't look like cell doors; there's no locks on them, or tiny iron windows like she imagined there would be. The man nods his head and murmurs a short word to Shizuo that Akane can't catch.

Then he opens the door for them.

Akane's head feels filled with dough. She walks in when Shizuo does, and she thinks her hand is shaking now, but he doesn't stop her. He doesn't let go of her. Akane's eyes can't leave the sight of the glass partition in the middle of the room, and for a moment the light from the hallway is all she can see against the silhouette behind—but then it clears as she blinks, and she sees the tired, warm eyes of her father, the old scar on his chin and older scar on his brow, and when he says, "Akane," she doesn't cry.

She doesn't cry.

The distance she and Shizuo cross from the door to the table and chair seems infinite, and yet they cross it in a second. Shizuo pulls the chair away from the table so she can climb on it, and she does, her hand still caught inside his.

Shizuo is silent.

"Akane," her father says again. She can't look away from his eyes. "I've missed you so much."

There's a knot of warmth and queasiness in her throat that she doesn't know how to vocalize. She got her voice back when Shizuo took her in, and it came with tears, but this is different. It's like a part of her is trying to reject the hand Shizuo is holding as something foreign, to cut it off entirely, to detach it from her senses. Like something in her still hasn't left the big house she lived in once, when her mother and father weren't in prison. The rest of her is sure that she'll be swallowed whole by the ground if she lets go.

"Akane?" her father says again. He looks stricken.

Akane feels Shizuo move beside her. He clears his throat in a rare show of physical hesitation—"Ah, I'm not sure if you got my letter."

Her father looks away from her for a moment, and she feels the lack of his misery's weight like a burst of fresh air. He holds a piece of paper up; despite the glass keeping most light off of it, Akane can make out the same blue ink that she spilled on herself earlier that day, and though she can't read it, she knows Shizuo's handwriting.

"You're Heiwajima Shizuo," her father says. "My daughter's foster."

Her heart is beating like it's trying to explode inside her chest.

Shizuo squeezes her hand gently. Her fingers are all clammy now. "I am. I'm sorry we took so long to visit."

"Paperwork, right?" Mikiya says. "I thought prison would save me from that, but it turns out that even in here, I have to sign shit."

Shizuo laughs a little nervously. Mikiya's eyes are flying from him and back to Akane, over and over, like he can't stand to have his eyes away from her for more than a second. There's a white lamp on their side of the room that reflects harshly on the glass and refuses to bring his face to life completely. He looks grey. Like a ghost.

Akane's eyes are burning.

"I already explained to Akane why we couldn't come earlier," Shizuo continues. "Since technically, the state is still her legal guardian."

"Are you planning on shipping her off to someone else when the time comes, then?"

Akane feels the way Shizuo tenses. "That's up to Akane to decide," he says tightly.

Her father looks away from him. She has no idea how she looks—she feels as though every muscle in her face is petrified, voice gone and tear ducts as dry as the desert. It doesn't matter. Her expression is enough to make raw hurt flash through Mikiya's eyes and some great, invisible hand squeeze her heart all out of blood.

He seems to deflate all of a sudden. "I'm sorry," he says. "Darling, I'm sorry. I'm very happy to see you."

She missed his voice. She realizes this right as the knot in her travels up to her throat, and she kneels up on the chair to press her sweaty hands against the glass. Mikiya does the same on his side, palms flat against where hers should be. It doesn't matter that the glass is hard and smooth and she remembers his hands to be the opposite, because the glass warms almost instantly, like skin.

"Akane," he says, and she's never seen him cry before but he is, now, his breathing like rasps and wetness rolling down his shaven face, tears splitting into the lines that prison grew on his skin. "Akane…"

"'M sorry," she says. It's barely more than a whisper but she feels like she's screaming all the same, and her throat aches. "Sorry, sorry, sorry—"

"No, no, baby, why are you apologizing? Why? You didn't do anything wrong."

She sobs. "I don't _know_."

Mikiya falls quiet. His tears haven't ceased but he's silent where she's loud, certain that the guard outside the room and the warden in his office must be able to hear her lungs break open on her sobs and the wet noises she makes when she inhales.

Shizuo isn't holding her anymore, but he hasn't moved. She knows he's looking at her, and she can almost feel how much he wants to comfort her—but it doesn't help, nothing does, because her father is in prison and he will be for _years_ and the best she can do is touch glass and imagine that the warmth on it is his instead of hers.

It hadn't made sense. Not until now. It didn't make sense when the judge said _twenty years_ and it hadn't made sense when she traveled from family to family and then into Shizuo's gentle hands.

"Dad," she cries.

She wishes she were strong. She wishes she could do more than cling pathetically to the partition—she wishes she could punch straight through it and hold his hand and drag him out.

Mikiya makes a wounded noise on his side, and it comes off like static, not even like his real voice. It's traveling from a mic on his side and through speakers on theirs.

She doesn't know how long she stays like this. Eventually her sobs die down and fatigue takes over; she wobbles onto the table, and Shizuo catches her before she falls and helps her down onto the seat. She still feels like crying, but it's as if all the energy has been sucked out of her. She has to blink fast to keep her eyes open.

Mikiya rubs a hand over his face. His fingers dig into his eyes. She hears him sniff, and it makes an exhausted sort of laugh burst out from her lips.

He smiles at her gently. Then he turns his head to look at Shizuo, and he says, "I apologize."

"That's quite all right," Shizuo murmurs in answer.

"Yeah, well. I suppose after everything that's happened, crying in front of a stranger isn't that bad." Mikiya looks at Akane again. "Akane."

Akane nods tiredly.

"You're very brave for coming here," he continues. It makes her eyes burn again, but she doesn't have the energy to cry anymore. "I'm so, so happy that I got to see you again."

"We can come back, Akane," Shizuo offers immediately. "Whenever you want."

Mikiya stays silent for a moment. When he speaks again it is with restrained weight on his words, as if he's trying to sound as completely neutral as possible. "Would you like that?" he asks her.

She doesn't know.

She feels terrible for it. But her entire mind is reeling from the realization that this is her life, now; that she's not just patiently waiting for someone to tell her everything has been a bad joke anymore—this is her life, there's no going back, no hidden plot twist. No new official in a suit is going to come to her and tell her that everything's been fixed and she can finally go back home.

Her home is gone, and this is all she has left of it. A cold, stuffy room, where she can see her dad but never hold him.

Tears are streaming down her face wetly. The numbness is starting to settle inside her, and she doesn't know what it says about her that she prefers it to the sight of her father, forever stuck inside a glass cage that she can't open.

"Akane," Shizuo says.

It takes a tremendous amount of effort to lift her head in his direction. He crouches to be level with her, and he doesn't smile. She hadn't realized how little she wanted anyone to smile while she felt so miserable.

"You're very upset right now," he says slowly. "I understand that. Your dad does too. You don't have to make a decision now."

"I'm sorry," she repeats.

Shizuo shakes his head. "You've done nothing wrong. We'll go home, okay? I think you need to rest right now."

Her father isn't saying anything. He's looking at Shizuo pensively, and then back at Akane, and he smiles.

It's not a fake smile.

"Okay," she says hoarsely.

Shizuo walks to the back of the room and knocks on the door a couple times. It opens almost immediately to the same man who led them in earlier—Akane doesn't know, can't tell, if it's been a minute or an hour.

"I love you," Mikiya says, too low for anyone but her to hear. "No matter what. I'll always be your dad and I'll always love you. Even if you don't want to come visit me. Got it?"

She nods. Her eyes are still dripping, like she's opened a faucet that she can never, ever close.

Shizuo speaks to her a few times on the way back, but the most she can do is nod her assent thoughtlessly. She doesn't know what she agrees to for dinner that night, and she doesn't know what sort of movie he said they should both watch over the weekend. She looks at the blurry flow of buildings outside the car window and feels tears dry up on her face, crusting around her eyes. There's the start of a headache right between her eyes and she's pretty sure that she's bitten her lips raw. Shizuo will want to put chapstick on that again.

The way up the stairs to his apartment is long and painful. She doesn't touch the hand that Shizuo offers, and he doesn't insist. If he slows his pace for her it is without a single word about it.

Akane falls onto the couch in the living-room when she's inside. Her shoes are left at the entrance in disarray, and she listens to Shizuo pick them up and put them inside the cupboard near the entrance without any regret. She can't feel anything except a blurry, underwhelming sort of misery.

Shizuo leaves her be. He busies himself in the kitchen, puts something to cook inside the oven. He walks into the hallway leading to the bedrooms and soon enough she hears the sound of the shower running.

She doesn't know how she falls asleep. What seems like a minute after she closed her eyes, there is a hand gently shaking her awake, and when she sits up, she feels a blanket fall down from her chest to pool on top of her legs. Outside the windows, the sky is pitch black.

"You should go to bed," Shizuo tells her gently. "Sorry for waking you up, but you'll catch a cold if you sleep here."

Akane licks her lips. They're dry, like her entire mouth, and she feels even groggier than she did before.

"How long?" she croaks.

He smiles. "Three hours, give or take? You were really tired. I can reheat some dinner if you're hungry."

She shakes her head. Her stomach feels upset, and all she wants now is to go back to sleeping and not knowing anything about anything, ever.

Shizuo walks with her to her bedroom and marks a pause at the entrance. She does, too, a little more slowly.

It hasn't much changed since the day she arrived a couple months ago. The closet is filled with her clothes and she has her toys around the floor and onto her bed, but she can still tell that it looks like a guest bedroom. There's a pile of chairs in a corner and a few notebooks on the topmost shelf of the desk. Shizuo's stuff.

"I should move those," he says, as if echoing her thoughts.

"S'fine," she replies.

"It's your room."

He always says that, and usually, she's good with just ignoring it. But today she isn't. Today she has the knowledge that there's no going back sitting heavy and painful inside her, and she's too drained to cry, but it feels all the same.

Shizuo grabs her shoulder gently and nudges her around, so that she can face him.

"Hey," he says. His eyes are infinitely gentle. "Don't think about it too hard, okay?"

She swallows painfully. "How?"

"I know it feels like it'll never get better right now." He crouches again, so that she can look at him and know he's not lying. His face is open. His words sincere. "I didn't think it would be such a shock for you. I'm sorry."

"I'm so—"

"Akane," he cuts her off. "You have nothing to apologize for."

For the first time that day, she believes it.

His other hand braces itself against her arm, and he squeezes her shoulders from both sides warmly. "You're very tired. I promise, it won't feel as awful after a good night's rest."

She licks her lips. "I just wanted to—" she chokes, unable to finish.

"I know," Shizuo says. "But your dad loves you. He understands how hard this is for you. Take your time, okay?" His thumb brushes against the tear tracks on her face gently. "And know that no matter what, this is your home for as long as you want it to be."

"Say," and Shizuo pushes against the floor to stand up again, a fleeting smile on his lips, "What would you say about writing your dad a letter?"

"I don't know enough to write," Akane replies belatedly.

Shizuo shrugs. "I can help. I'm sure your dad would be very happy to get a letter from you, even if some of it is in my handwriting."

Akane can't help but shiver as she remembers the room, the glass partition, the cold, grey table. The prison that looks like a school. She doesn't even know what her father's cell looks like or how he's been doing. She wanted to ask him if the food was okay.

She forgot. She was too miserable to think of anything other than her own sorrow. Now, she wishes she had remembered.

"I want to," she says. "I want to write him a letter."

Shizuo ruffles her hair. Under the weight of his hand and his gaze, she thinks she can breathe a bit better.


	7. Bliss

**Bliss**

Izaya has lived through two bad break-ups in his life. It's either irony or fate that he's only had two relationships at all, and that the first caused the second.

Shiki breaking up with him had felt like white-hot rage, like simmering humiliation, like revenge churning in his stomach and bursting out of his mouth bile-like. Izaya hadn't let himself feel heartbroken so much as hate-filled and hate-fueled for weeks, for _months_ afterward, until he had Shiki's name and prison sentence under his eyes in the morning papers. He'd run his index over the printed characters as he smoked from a half-full pack of cigarettes he had stolen from the man, until his fingertip was black with ink. Until his throat ached from the sweet-smelling tobacco Shiki favored.

Only then had he felt satisfaction. Only then had he started looking back at every shared memory and souring all of them for himself. Slowly, meticulously, like needlework. There was no heartbreak to be felt when he was done.

Shizuo breaking up with him feels like tachycardia; it feels like sorrow is trapped between his ribs and making his heart tire itself out; it feels like every day going by unseen, like Namie texting him _There's nothing to report, he's living his damn life and he looks fine_ , every day at four-thirty. She keeps telling him she won't help him stalk his ex anymore and she keeps doing it anyway because, he surmises, it's better than seeing him like this. This break-up feels like a sob waiting to be let out. It feels like guilt.

Izaya spends two months like this—holed into work, avoiding all but clients and professional emails, Mikage's pathetic efforts at friendship going unindulged—until he slams a fist down against his glass desktop with all the strength he possesses.

" _Fuck_ ," Namie says breathlessly, startled by the noise. "What the hell, Izaya?"

His fingers shake when he uncurls his hand, every knuckle aching smartly. "I'm going out," he replies.

"To do what? Punch a brick wall this time? You've got a client coming in ten minutes."

"Reschedule, then," Izaya says, sliding a hollow smile in her direction.

She grits her teeth and turns her head away from him.

Some of the tension in him has been smothered by the pain, but Izaya isn't stupid enough to think it won't come back. He's not stupid enough to think this was any kind of a smart move either. He knows how he is more honestly than he wishes to, and he knows a slippery slope when he sees one—just because he isn't a teenager anymore doesn't mean harming himself isn't a temptation.

Still. There are better ways to harm oneself than simple brutal violence.

Spring is well underway now, closer to summer in heat and sunlight. It's a bright Saturday afternoon and people are out everywhere to enjoy it. Izaya doesn't hear any of their laughs and yells as he walks near public parks and open cafés. His feet take him in the direction of Akane's school because it's where he goes on days like this, when he's sure she doesn't have class and Shizuo doesn't have a reason to come. He sits down at the bad coffee place that was their first meeting and their first date, and he orders tea and broods.

The place is mostly empty, as he expected. Its strongest selling element is its location—rush hours are what makes its success, not the quality of their food and drinks. The tea is tasteless, tepid. Izaya likes tea when the water is right off the boiler, when he can feel his tongue burn on it. All this cup does is make him ache more.

 _This is stupid_ , he thinks, like he does every time. And yet he does it every time.

He hasn't been here five minutes when he stands up from his seat. He doesn't linger much longer than ten on worse days. Even the sight of the school hurts, yet another reminder that on top of Shizuo himself it's everything Shizuo loves that he misses as well. He misses Shizuo, and he misses Shizuo's handsome handwriting, and he misses Akane. He misses being loved like he knew from the start he never deserved to be, and just because he knew it could only end badly doesn't make the aftermath any easier to live through.

Izaya's eyes fall down from the school's bell-tower and meet Shizuo's across the street.

His fingers tighten over the plastic cup, making lukewarm tea spill over his hand and shoes.

For a second he doesn't know if he hopes that Shizuo hasn't noticed him; there's a good thirty meters between the two of them and people walking on the sidewalks that separate them, it's not entire inconceivable. Izaya's physical appearance is nothing out of the ordinary in a sea of other ordinary-looking men and women. But Shizuo looks to his right, then his left, and when he crosses the street his eyes are back to Izaya instantly.

Izaya watches him approach silently and doesn't have the strength to steel himself for anything through the longing that grips him by the throat. Shizuo falters a few feet away from him on the wide sidewalks, his gaze searching and sad.

"Hey," he says. He tries to smile, but all it does is make it impossible for Izaya to meet his eyes.

"Shizuo," he replies as evenly as he can.

It's awkward. Shizuo takes another few steps forward—Izaya would step back, but he has the table's edge pressed against the back of his thighs, so what he does instead is turn around a little to put down the tea he's not going to finish and give himself an excuse to bite his lip unseen.

He's tasting blood by the time he straightens up, so he doesn't even try to smile. "It's been a while," he says. "Did you want something?" He nods toward the entrance of the coffee shop. "The cheesecake looks slightly less like it's likely to poison you today."

Shizuo doesn't look away from him, doesn't take the bait, but his lips shiver in the beginning of a smile, and Izaya's heart soars all the way up to his throat in a long, aching beat.

"It has been a while," he replies warmly. "How've you been, Izaya?"

Izaya's chest feels like a solid bruise. He almost answers, _Don't say my name like this_ , almost answers, _I've been waking up in the middle of the night to dreams of you kissing me like I wake up from nightmares_.

"Fine," he says. "Terrorizing my secretary, making men twice my age beg for mercy. You know how it goes."

Shizuo's mouth twitches again. "Yeah, I can believe that."

Izaya wants to wrap his hands around his neck and press their lips together so hard he'll stop breathing altogether.

He looks at the school again and asks, "How's Akane?" And he means it as a jab or a reminder, as something to make Shizuo remember the reason he's left Izaya feeling like he's carrying his own weight in regrets for two months, but his voice quivers over Akane's name in a way much too telling, and Shizuo's eyes soften.

"Ah." Shizuo brings a hand up, rubs it over his nape. "She's, uh, a little mad at me right now, actually."

"Mad at you?"

"Yeah."

Izaya can't think of anything that would make Akane mad at Shizuo short of Shizuo murdering someone she loves in cold blood, which makes the present situation so unbelievable he wonders for a second if he's dreaming again.

"That's…" he doesn't know how to end his thought.

Shizuo smiles at him briefly, like he knows exactly what Izaya means. Then he clears his throat and says, "Listen, I… do you have some time right now?"

Izaya's fingers rub together, knuckles still painful from earlier. "Why?"

"I'd like to talk to you for a moment."

"Are _you_ free?"

"Yeah. I had the morning shift only."

Izaya hesitates.

He has an idea of what this is, and he doesn't… he doesn't _do_ long heartfelt conversations with exes. He doesn't seek closure because he's incapable of finding it. He doesn't know that he can apologize—and Shizuo will want an apology—and even if by some miracle he can restrain the true and rotten self he's been trying to hide around him, even if Shizuo manages to get some modicum of peace out of whatever Izaya says, Izaya won't. He'll walk out of this feeling worse than he went in. He'll be scratching at wounds that haven't yet scabbed. It's why he hasn't contacted Shizuo once since Shizuo asked him to go.

Shizuo looks at him with no expectation, sunlight glowing in his hair and eyes. He still looks like he did the first time Izaya saw him enter that same place, when he thought of him as a stranger to talk to and drag into his bed. But Izaya has had Shizuo in his bed. He's had Shizuo in _Shizuo's_ bed, and in many places more. He knows exactly what Shizuo looks like with nothing but heat between them—he knows what Shizuo's hands feel like on his skin and he knows what Shizuo sounds like gasping into his neck—and the only thing he can think of is that he'd sacrifice even those memories for the chance to hear him say _I love you_ again.

"I have time," he says, and it comes out more hoarsely than he intended.

* * *

They don't touch at all as they walk. It's not unfamiliar—neither of them so much as held hands in public even when they were together. Shizuo may not be ashamed of displaying innocent affection, but Izaya tenses when he feels eyes on them. This is not one of the concessions that came as a problem between them.

Now, though, the distance between them aches all the more with the knowledge that they are walking in the same direction and for the same purpose. Izaya would gladly accept the weight of Shizuo's hand and that of onlookers.

"Have you eaten lunch yet?" Shizuo asks quietly.

Izaya glances at him, but Shizuo is looking ahead, troubled. "I'm not hungry," he replies.

"You've lost weight."

Of course he would notice.

Izaya hasn't had an appetite for much more than tea and the occasional takeout. He's skipped breakfast more often than not and left much of the food Namie prepares to go to waste in his fridge. She's been very unhappy about it.

Shizuo takes him to a restaurant without saying more on the topic. It's not a place they've visited together, which Izaya would consider an insult if he weren't so sure that Shizuo is trying to _spare his feelings_. The sign outside is colorful in the worst way and the people inside noisy. Izaya is trying to parse the concept of a sushi restaurant owned by Russians, eyeing the white man behind the counter and ignoring the loud crowd when someone says, " _Shizu-chan_!"

"Fuck," he hears Shizuo mutter.

The owner of the voice is a woman seated with three other people. She waves in direction of the entrance, jumping to her feet and urging them over. Shizuo gives Izaya an apologetic glance, which Izaya waves off with more grace than he feels, before heading toward her. He's not going to resent Shizuo for being more social than he is.

"Karisawa," he greets curtly, Izaya a few feet behind him.

"I haven't seen you in _forever_ ," the woman says, giddy. "Come on, sit with us!"

The man sitting next to her grabs her by the sleeve and pulls her back down, saying, "Can't you see he's got company? Act your age."

He looks vaguely familiar.

Karisawa pouts. "But everything's so fun with Shizu-chan."

"Don't call me that," Shizuo says, tired. "I'm busy—I'll hang out with you guys later, all right?" He gives a friendly nod to the man with the beanie and raises his hand to answer the other two men's greetings before turning to walk toward Izaya again.

It's then that the man in the hat meets Izaya's eyes for a second, looks away, and then looks back with recognition and surprise etched onto his face.

"Izaya?" he asks, bewildered.

Shizuo pauses, glancing between the two of them.

The man stops looking confused to look _glad_ instead, and his voice is surer when he says, "You're Orihara Izaya, right? Man, it's been a while."

"Have we met?" Izaya answers coldly. He's not exactly in the mood for pleasantries.

"Yeah, we have," the man grins. "I'm Kadota Kyouhei. We went to highschool together."

And suddenly it clicks; the man's face falls into place alongside memories Izaya hasn't browsed in years, younger but no less friendly than it is now. One of two people Izaya talked to on a regular basis in school, and the only one of the two he's likely to forget.

Izaya feels his lips curl into a smile. "Dotachin," he says slowly. "I expected you to be in prison by now."

Kadota laughs and replies, "I expected you to be dead."

"Seems like we both missed out."

"Ooh," one of the two other men says, the one with light blond hair. "Is this the guy you told us about, Kadota-san? The one who started a gambling ring in your school?"

"The one and only," Kadota replies dryly.

"Figures," Shizuo says under his breath. Izaya is the only one who hears him.

It's enough to remind him of why he's here at all. He puts his hands in his pockets and toys with his house key with the tip of his fingers. "Not that I wouldn't love to revisit fond memories, but I'm rather short on time, Dotachin," he says. "If you don't mind catching up later."

"Sure," Kadota says, with the air of someone who knows exactly how unlikely Izaya is to do just that. "I'll ask Sharaku for your number."

It's a threat as much as a promise, but the kind of threat Izaya can brush off with a smile that feels almost genuine.

He and Shizuo walk away, and Izaya hears the Karisawa woman say, "Why are all your friends hot, Dotachin?" and Kadota reply, "Don't ever call me that," with the voice of someone who regrets a lot of things.

Shizuo leans in closer. "I'll get us a private booth," he murmurs, breath running along the shell of Izaya's ear.

It leaves Izaya still all the way to his heart.

He does get them a booth, somehow. It's at the very end of the dining room, where no one can see them except by standing right next to their table. Izaya sits down and doesn't touch the menu.

"Sorry about that lot," Shizuo says after an awkward silence. "They're not exactly discreet."

"Kadota has always had a knack for surrounding himself with eccentrics," Izaya replies evenly. "I had no idea you knew him."

"I had no idea you knew him either. We worked together a couple years before I got my current job and got along well."

"Small world," Izaya mutters.

Shizuo nudges the menu in his direction. "Get yourself something to eat," he says.

"I'm not hungry."

"Have you eaten _anything_ today?"

Izaya frowns and bats away the plastic. It almost slides right off the table and into the feet of the fast-walking waiter who comes out of the kitchen in that moment, but it gets the point across, no matter how childish it is.

"Okay," Shizuo relents. "Sorry."

He sounds so _sincere_ is the problem. It makes the guilt that has clung to every breath Izaya takes shiver inside his throat, makes his face flush with it.

"Look, Shizuo," he says—has to swallow after saying, because Shizuo's very name feels like a knifecut on his tongue. "Just tell me what you want to talk about. Let's not pretend either of us wants to be here."

Shizuo just looks at him in silence for a long moment. Izaya stares unseeingly at the kitchen's door next to the booth, doesn't move when Shizuo waves over the waiter and orders whatever it is he wants before sending him off again.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said, "about what happened the last time we saw each other."

"You mean when you broke up with me."

"Yes. When I broke up with you."

Izaya's lips curl into a smile more feral than friendly, but Shizuo doesn't flinch away when their eyes meet. "What's there to talk about? You made the right choice. The only choice you could've made under the circumstances. I respect that."

"I know," Shizuo replies. "I can't say I've ever had this clean a break with anyone before. Thank you."

The pain in Izaya's chest is so sharp it feels physical in every way. Like Shizuo just stabbed a knife right between his ribs.

"What do you want," he says between his teeth, eyes close.

"I want to know why you never told me the truth."

It's nothing Izaya hadn't expected.

"We've had this conversation—"

"Yeah, and you never answered me properly," Shizuo cuts him off. "You made fun of me, and you acted like you didn't give a damn, and you left when I told you to. I want to know."

"There's nothing to _know_ ," Izaya replies icily. "I hid it from you because I knew you'd break up with me if you found out. What more do you want?"

Shizuo is silent for a moment. The waiter comes back with his food—he pushes half of it in front of Izaya, and Izaya feels too hollow to throw it off the table like he wants to, so he settles for letting it sit untouched in front of himself.

Shizuo eats a piece from his plate, looking down. "Did you know about Akane when we got together?" he asks once he's done chewing.

"Yes."

"I see." He looks up again, and Izaya can't read anything in his eyes. His fingers clench together in his lap. "So you were lying from the start."

Izaya smiles. "I was. How does that make you feel?"

"Not very good."

Izaya huffs and looks away.

"The thing is," Shizuo says a moment later, after toying with more of his food, "I can understand lying to me for a while if you only wanted a fling. If you just wanted to sleep with me or something. But that's not what you wanted, was it?"

"Maybe it was," Izaya lies.

Shizuo smiles sadly. "Then let's put it that way, if it's easier for you." Izaya tenses, but Shizuo continues before he can put in a word, " _I_ wanted a relationship. I wanted a real, solid thing, and I consider what we had to be that even now. And you knew it."

Denying it would be fruitless, so Izaya doesn't.

Shizuo sucks a stray drop of soy sauce from his thumb before speaking again. "It lasted a year. That's no fling, Izaya, no matter how much you want to pretend to the contrary. You're smart. You knew the truth would come up eventually." His hand drops down onto the table, fingers splayed wide and gentle. "So why delay it? Why not talk to me about it?"

"Why not tell you that I hurt the person you care the most about?" Izaya parrots dryly. "Yeah, that would've been _smart_ of me, Shizuo."

"It would've been smart of you to give me a chance to hear you out."

Izaya grinds his teeth. "This is useless," he hisses.

"Maybe. But you won't leave, 'cause you know you owe me this much."

It's true. It's the only reason Izaya hasn't listened to the urge to flee yet.

Shizuo takes the time to finish his food this time, to take long sips from the tea he's ordered and which has been steaming softly beside him the entire time. Izaya looks at his hand instead of looking at him. He watches the curve of his knuckles against the heat of the cup and tries to think of nothing.

When he's done, he straightens up in his seat, and his legs extend forward under the table, brushing Izaya's.

"I've been thinking," he starts. "I think there's a lot more to this than you or that Shiki guy want to let me know." Izaya has to restrain an angry shiver at Shiki's name as always, but he says nothing, just looks at Shizuo with what he hopes is bored neutrality. "And some of it is probably legitimately none of my business. But I also know you didn't just want to keep it secret just so you could have sex with me."

"You're just that good. You should be flattered."

Shizuo ignores him. "I think you care a lot about all of this, Izaya."

There's nothing but ruthless honesty in his eyes.

"Enough," Izaya says.

Shizuo shakes his head. "No," he replies. "Not until you tell me the truth."

"What do you _want_ from me, Shizuo?" Izaya's hand flies over the table before he can help it, grasps Shizuo's wrist tightly and tugs it forward. He can feel Shizuo's heartbeat under his index, and it's peaceful, nothing like the storm gathering inside his own chest. His voice turns as derisive and hurtful as he knows how to make it. "Do you want me to beg you? Do you want me to _apologize_? Because I know how you are, and I know you would like me even less if you knew just how low I'd be willing to stoop. You wouldn't enjoy me begging you like this."

"I want to _hear you out_ , Izaya," Shizuo replies with the first hint of anger he's shown all day. "I want you to tell me the truth with your own words. I don't want to leave everything we had behind just because of a stranger who's angry at you."

Izaya tries to release his grip, but all Shizuo does is trap his hand over the table with a press of his palm, and it doesn't hurt at all in spite of Izaya's bruises.

"Tell me," Shizuo says softly. "Just tell me. I won't mock you. I just want to understand."

His hold is absolute.

Izaya licks his lips. "Just tell you," he repeats.

"Please."

Shizuo squeezes his wrist, and even this much is a better physical contact than Izaya's had in months. It makes warmth spread up his arm and settle in his throat with a purr.

"Shiki and I were in a relationship," Izaya says. "When he broke up with me, I was angry. Angry enough to want to make him pay in a way he'd never forget. So I sank him and his organization."

Shizuo doesn't ask for details, thankfully.

"I'm not a good person," Izaya tells him lowly, flicking a glance toward him and then looking down at their joined hands. "You probably had an idea from the start, but you can't even begin to imagine the number of people I've played like this, Shizuo. I've destroyed countless lives over the smallest offenses—I didn't care at all about collateral damage when it came to taking actual revenge.

"I recognized Akane when Mikage told me her name, but I said nothing, because what would be the point? I wasn't even expecting to see you again." He chuckles. "Then I kept silent because I didn't want you to break up with me, it _is_ the truth."

"But it's not all the truth," Shizuo replies.

Izaya's hand curls into a fist, and Shizuo's hold on his wrist doesn't waver, not for a second. "I didn't want to tell you because you're a good man. You're a better person than anyone I've ever met before. And I didn't want you to—" Izaya sucks in a breath rather than let himself choke, blinks quickly to erase the stinging in his eyes. "I didn't want you to look at me and know, really know, the sort of person I am. I didn't want to disappoint you. I wanted to pretend I deserved you for as long as I could."

"Izaya—"

"So that's it," Izaya interrupts, because he can't handle Shizuo's pity, not now, not ever. "It's just that stupid."

"What about Akane?"

Izaya rips his hand out of Shizuo's grip, finds his eyes and holds their stare, neck aching on his own tension. " _Yes_ , Akane too," he says between clenched teeth. "It's just that fucking stupid, okay? I fooled myself into falling in love with you and getting attached to your daughter and I didn't want you to stop looking at me the way you did. I didn't want you to be disappointed with me, and I didn't want Akane to hate me, and I didn't want either of you out of my life! Is that what you wanted to hear? Because that's the truth. The whole truth. There's no noble grand reason, Shizuo, I'm just _selfish_."

His voice has become more of a whisper with every word. It's better than yelling and causing a scene. Izaya cradles his aching fingers into the palm of his other hand and stares at the untouched food in front of him, willing his heartbeat to quiet.

His breath stalls when Shizuo reaches forward to take his hand again; he lets him have it because Shizuo's pull is impossible to resist regardless of physical strength, and he has to close his eyes when Shizuo's thumb strokes over the red and blue on his knuckles.

"Enough," Izaya says again in a wisp of a voice. "Please. Just let me go now."

It's a weird parody of the words they exchanged two months ago. Shizuo squeezes his hand, and Izaya wants to cry with the knowledge that he'll crave even this—pressure against aches—if it's from Shizuo.

 _I'm never getting over him_ , he thinks, throat so tight with longing that he can't swallow without aching.

"Akane's angry at me," Shizuo says roughly.

Izaya's eyes open just enough to see light and not much else. "So you said."

"We had a talk after you left. She was hurt, yeah, she's angry at you too. But she said I should've let you talk to her before telling you to leave that night."

"She's ten," Izaya replies painfully. His hand feels weak, no matter how tightly Shizuo holds it. "She wouldn't have understood."

"Maybe. But she likes it better when people assume she can understand, even if she can't."

"So what," Izaya scoffs. His entire face burns with shame—it's all he can do not to hold Shizuo's hand back because he's _lost_ that right. "Even if I'd told her, it wouldn't have changed anything. You would've still told me to go."

Shizuo doesn't answer immediately. He turns Izaya's hand around so his palm faces upward and follows one of the lines in it with his thumb, and Izaya doesn't know anything of palmistry, but this is a love line. This is something he'll feel for days.

"She's mostly upset that I'm so miserable," Shizuo says finally. "And she misses you."

Izaya's hand shakes. "Stop."

But— "Izaya," Shizuo murmurs, "I think you think way too highly of me."

"You don't have to _comfort_ me. This isn't how it works." This time, when he tries to take back his hand, Shizuo stops him.

"I was never looking for someone perfect," he continues, implacable. "No one's perfect. I had a hunch that you were involved in illegal things, and that didn't bother me. And now I know for sure that you're not as bad as you make yourself out to be."

Izaya's eyes rise to stare at him, incredulous, and Shizuo smiles. The tiny lines around his eyes deepen as he does.

"You feel like shit over it, Izaya," he says. "You look miserable. Whatever you were before—you're not like that anymore."

"I destroyed your daughter's life," Izaya retorts.

"Would you do it again, knowing her?"

The answer rips itself out of him with no thought: "No."

Shizuo's smile turns softer and deeper, his fingers gentler against Izaya's. "I'm not saying I forgive you. That's not up to me."

"What are you saying?" Izaya breathes.

He has to hunch over the tabletop when Shizuo brings their hands up. The feeling of Shizuo's lips against his knuckles shoots up his arm and settles in his stomach like liquor, warm and dizzying.

"I'm saying that you regret it, and that's good enough for me," Shizuo says. His breath is warm on Izaya's fingers. "And that, if you want, we can figure the rest out together."

Izaya's ears ring from the blood that rushes to his head. When he exhales, all the air in his lungs comes out at once.

"Shizuo," is all he knows how to say.

"Yeah," Shizuo replies, looking down from his eyes to watch his mouth instead. "Izaya."

The table lets out a loud whine when Izaya pushes it forward in his haste, his free hand slamming dangerously close to the food still present by his side, but it wouldn't matter even if someone came to enquire after the noise. Shizuo's lips are warm under his, pliant and accommodating; Izaya shakes his hand out of Shizuo's grip to grab the hair at the back of his head and tilt it sideways, so he can lick the sharp tang of the food he ate directly off his tongue. Shizuo hums into it, holding Izaya's chin and then his shoulder, his hot breath running short against Izaya's cheek.

Izaya's lips are wet when he pulls away. He feels too hot under his clothes and too hot under his skin. Like all the warmth in his body has gathered in his lungs.

He doesn't let go of Shizuo's hair. It's as much to feel the soft of it under his fingers as it is to hold himself upright instead of falling.

"I missed you," Shizuo says, breathless.

"Me too." Izaya can't look away from him, not for a second. "I missed you so much," he says, and he learns forward to kiss him again, thinks about staying like this for hours on end despite the beginning of an ache in the lone arm supporting his weight over the table.

He lets Shizuo drag him around the table and press him into the farthest corner of the booth, lets Shizuo kiss the breath out of him and tread fingers through his hair until all of his scalp tingles and all of his chest burns.

The first time Izaya tells Shizuo he loves him is muffled against the other's mouth.


End file.
